


Protecting the Protector

by rotorhead



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:58:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotorhead/pseuds/rotorhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl, the infallible Second in command is the victim of an insidious crime and being protected by the 2 mechs believed responsible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Protecting the Protector.  
Chapter 1

Posted on ff.net under the same name.

The rec. room pulsed from the sheer force of the beat resonating from the speakers. Each hit of the bass sending a small cascade of dust from the corners of the crashed ships darkened passageways. The beat offset by the occasional counter thump as one of room’s occupants fell or tried to dance, resonated through the ships hull. Sunstreaker huffed as the decibels increased exponentially with each step closer to the pandemonium filled area.  
It was 3 in the Primus fragging morning.

The golden warrior had just returned from a double patrol, having covered Hounds so the annoyingly likeable mech could attend. The green mech probably being the only bot he would cover for, including his asinine brother. Mostly because he knew the Jeep would return the favor, no interest or threats required and he’d be happy about it.  
Fragging pit spawned friendly, good slagging natured nut job. 

He refused to like him, but it was difficult as times. The feeling of grime under his plates from having to run the scouts off road route instead of driving would provide him with ample amount of hate and loathing for the mech in the near future.

The cacophony paused momentarily then resumed with a bass hit that knocked leaves from his golden chassis. Were Blaster and Jazz playing music or conducting sonic warfare? Prowl typically pulled the plug on these things around 2, the mech not wanting the lingering effect of the high grade and lack of recharge to cloud those who had a shift in the morning and let those that didn’t attend get some respite from the un holy noise Jazz and Blaster blared loud enough to topple any stalactites remaining in the area. 

Stopping at the door to the shared wash racks the volatile twin growled at the vibrations he felt rising up through his feet. He just wanted to be clean, then get energon and some recharge, in that order. The audio destroying music would undoubtedly put a damper on the latter two. Mechs falling over each other in an overcharged stupor was never his preferred environment. Let alone with this motley crew. Tracks liked to play grab aft the more intoxicated he got until somebot took the hint and escorted him to their room. Trailbreaker loved everyone after 3 cubes, hugging any who ventured near during his proclamations of affection and Jazz liked to start slag. Whether it’s drunken karaoke or pin the blame on the lambo’s. Then there was the minibots, o’ Primus below, the minibots. 

He shuttered in remembered horror.

Palming open the door, the harsh overhead lights flared to life, revealing a huddled figure in the far corner. Stepping in, the door swished shut behind him, instantly dampening the thrum of music, but not lessening the vibrations of it, the grates under foot shivering from the continued assault. The frontliner made his way to his preferred rack and toggled the solvent on. 

Mechs crawling in here to purge after a night of binge drinking wasn’t uncommon. Some even ended up sleeping in here if one of their friends didn’t come to drag them to their room.

He didn’t care. Refused to care and didn’t bother to ever register the mechs presence.

Clean, food, sleep, that’s all he could muster himself to care about. 

Not some drunk aft on the floor.

The warm solvent coursed over him, seeping into his armor gaps and washing away several hundred miles of road grime and several loops of on foot swamp navigation. Pulling his cleaner and a soft bristled brush from his subspace, Sunstreaker focused on getting the gunk out of his joints, and then swapped to a rag to clean his plating.  
The gag and hacking of a system desperately trying to rid itself of energon over took the sound of solvent hitting his chassis. Growling at having his shower time disturbed, the yellow lambo turned just enough to the bowed mech to let a broad sweep of his field and optic glare proclaim his displeasure at the interruption.  
The sounds came again, the dry hacking and little whine coupled with cooling fans franticly trying to lower the mechs temperature. An answering field sweep pinged a weak apology along with the unmistakable identifier of the field’s owner.

“Prowl?”

“mmmHhhm.”

The mech turned to look at him and sure enough a red chevron graced the forehead as lens cleaner pooled in the optics from the force behind the dry heaves. Doorwings laid flat against his back as the black and white heaved repeatedly. The tactician’s whole body rose and fell with each effort. One arm wrapped around his middle just under his pronounced bumper, the other bracing against the vibrating grates. He sat awkwardly on his knees, pitched forward and every minuet shift caused the anti-slip grates to scratch into the contacting metal. The second in commands legs baring the testimony that he’d been at this for a while, the multitude of gouges and scrapes crisscrossed the appendages in a nonsensical pattern, some deep enough to ooze energon.

He didn’t want to care.

Prowl was a big mech that could handle himself, and did, along with most of everything else concerning the Autobots and the war.  
Sunstreaker knew he was glaring at the mech. He wasn’t even clean yet, cleaner then before but there was still goo and leaves jammed into places he didn’t want them. With a resigned huff he knelt next to his commander, making sure to not let his knee contact the floor.

“Need an assist?” 

Ragged venting washed over him as Prowl shook his head, declining his offer.

Well he offered. Not that it mattered or anything.

Shrugging the whole thing off, he returned to his wash. Not stopping as the gagging returned and harsh venting echoed in the empty space. Finally clean to his level of expectations the golden mech turned the shower off. Stealing a glance at the relatively unchanged Datsun and noticing the face plates pinched in discomfort. 

This wasn’t his area. 

He had asked if the mech wanted help and was declined, Sideswipe was the outgoing gregarious type who handled these situations. But his aft hat of a brother was thoroughly overcharged and kept sending warm pings through their bond, sometimes in time with the beat reverberating through the Ark.

Prowl shivered and let himself lean to the side, hitting the shower wall with a muted clank and sliding down so he lay pressed against it, one servo moving up to cushion his helm against the bite of the grates. Sunstreaker ran his freshly cleaned servo over his faceplates in surrender. 

He wasn’t helpful by nature, but he wasn’t spark-less either.

“Come on Prowl, let’s get you to the medbay.”

He set his hand on the mechs shoulder, noting the black and white’s temperature was higher then it should be. 

“I… I’m fine Sunstreaker, bad cube is all, and it’s almost out of my system.”

There was no slurring of words, they were horse but then the mech had just spent the last few hours purging and now that he was contacting the mech, he couldn’t feel the tell tail buzz in his EM field to indicate that he’d been overcharged. 

So the mech really was just sick.

Primus really didn’t want him to get any recharge. It was like the planets were aligning and if anybot bothered to read their upcoming horoscope it would say; beware of the golden god, for he is grumpy and will smite for minimal offence.

Or some slag like that.

“I’m still dragging your aft to medbay and if you purge on me, I will have to terminate you.”

He crouched low, intending to get the troubled mech to his feet but Prowl flinched and leaned away from his touch. 

“I haven’t been able to curb the purging and I’d rather not die like that.”

The mech was deadpan, if it was a joke, which he rather doubted, it was the first one he’d heard coming from the ill mech. Prowl could be completely serious, probably was, and, well, he was the not-friendly yellow twin. The 2IC knew excruciatingly well how serious he was when it came to being clean. The mech having to hand out the punishments for each time someone else forgot and subsequently needed to have their energon hosed off the walls.

“Could call in the medics, it is what they’re for.”

A wearied blue optic onlined and looked up at him. They were dimmer then they should be and Sunstreaker grunted as Prowl moved, scraping most of his side against the vicious grates.

“I tried, Sunstreaker, I have 4 requests for a medic pending. I have not received a response yet.” 

He loomed over the Datsun, it was one of his several skills that never seemed to phase Prowl, but he like to do it, and so he did. It was an art really; it required practice and skill to be able to go from casually disinterested to incensed looming all while looking your best and truly not giving a damn about why you were looming in the first place. It made mechs leave him alone and unlike Cliffjumper, Brawn and Ironhide who were the only ones that came close to him in respect of the art of looming, he really would slag you.  
Prowl didn’t huddle or cower away from his show of aggression and idly Sunstreaker wondered if the mech’s muted emotions let him feel fear. Comprehend and evaluate the situation for percent of likelihood of imminent slagging, sure, but did the mech get the strut tingles when the slag hit the fan?

A bout of dry heaves worked their way out of the compromised commander. The squeal of his side being torn to shreds on the grates as he rocked with the force of his bodies convulsions brought the golden warriors hands to the mech. Lifting the surprisingly light Prowl and holding him against his pristine chassis until the heaves stopped and the mech slumped in his arms. 

“You don’t have to do this, Sunstreaker.”

“I Know.”

Repositioning the black and white so the mech was facing him, the frontliner stood and let the mech cling to him as his optics cycled and door wings gave little pathetic twitches. He pulled a clean rag from his sub space and toggled the nearest shower on. Standing under the heated spray he washed the gross fluid from Prowls hands and face, the regurgitated energon staining the rag teal instead of the normal blue of processed or pink of fresh energon.

Bad cube indeed. 

He kept a supporting hand wrapped around Prowl as the mechs knees wobbled and threatened to give out. Satisfied, Sunstreaker turned the shower off and ran a dry rag down the side of Prowls impassive face plates, quickly brushing off any lingering solvent from the tactician’s helm.

He rearranged his hold on the officer, putting Prowls arm around his shoulder and wrapping his around the black and white’s waist. They slowly worked their way to the door as Prowl kept ghosting his back with a doorwing that twitched and fluttered with each step. The contact not enough to scratch his freshly cleaned self, so Sunstreaker let it slide.  
The door slid open and Prowl recoiled from the sonic attack. Doorwings flailing, the mechs field flared out in distress as Prowl’s knee joints buckled. The yellow warrior swiftly pinned his commander to the door frame to prevent the mech from falling as the black and white adjusted his audios and dampened vibration sensors to handle the sounds.

“Let me know when to drop you, if you’re going to purge.”

The red chevron bobbed as the arm around his shoulders regained its hold.

“Let’s go.”

Slowly they retreated from the wash racks and made their way to the MedBay. The noise blaring through the speakers following them and even across the ship to where the bays were located, the crescendo’s were still audible. The orange sound proof doors opened in blessed silence to reveal a darkened space. Muted light eked out from the curtained office but didn’t do much to the vast space beyond the door. Waving his hand in an attempt to trigger the motion activated lighting the pair stepped in. Silence slapping them abruptly as the doors closed. The vibrations could still be felt but the assault on the audios ceased. Waving his hand again and still not activating the lights, Sunstreaker activated his infrared and growled lowly as he glared at the dimly lit office.

Forms moved against each other, the heat radiating off them making it hard to distinguish between the individual mechs. His audios picking up the heavy venting and harsh whispers now that they had recovered enough to pick up sounds at lower decibels. Prowl tensed and lurched away from him as his systems started to convulse with his gagging.

“Drop me.”

Sunstreaker let the mech fall, Prowl clattering to the deck plates in an undignified heap. Liquid gushed out from between lips to splatter onto the floor only to dim out to nothing as it lost its heat signature and no longer registered with infrared. In the darkness, the golden warrior stood guard over the purging mech. Glaring at the huddled mess of his commander then at the office and the mechs inside. First Aide was the duty medic and Sunstreaker could make out the mechs field as it surged in overload.  
Growling as Hotspot and Grooves fields surged immediately after.

Prowl vented wildly as his body arched to purge again. Sunstreaker clenched his hands into tight fists as he accessed the command communication grid. Noting that Ironhide, Ratchet, Wheeljack and several other science bots had “Do not disturb” next to their com frequencies, the frontliner recalled the heckling earlier about a poker game Ironhide was sure he was going to win at. 

Sunstreaker ex-vented heavily and forced his fists to relax one finger at a time as he logged out. Nothing short of a Decepticon attack would brake up that poker game and calling up Optimus at 3:27 in the morning was never a good idea. Jazz would be overcharged and Red Alert was just… no. 

Fluid stopped leaving the officers lips and the mech started to dry heave. 

He wasn’t responsible enough for this.

He couldn’t keep Sideswipes pet rock alive for crying out loud.

But as Prowl slumped to the side, he didn’t think he had much of a choice at the moment. 

Sunstreaker strode over to a supply closet and deftly hacked the lock. The lights coming on to momentarily blind him until he dropped infrared. The supply room was the same from the last time Sideswipe had shanghaied him into helping him raid it. Shelves lined the walls, each broken into bins set at measured intervals that were labeled with their contents. The good stuff, the heavy duty pain killers and neural buffers were locked up in Ratchet’s office but the regular stuff was here. After scanning the shelves he found the stash of tank calmer and another of a mild pain reducer/ sedative. 

He grabbed a preparation unit and drew in half of each vial then loaded the prepared cartage into an injector. All of those times he was spent stuck in medbay after a battle gave him ample time to watch the master medic do this and learn a thing or two. 

Not that he would admit to it.

He used the light from the supply closet to make his way back to Prowl and ran a finger down the black and white’s heaving side. Stopping at the medical port and tapping an access code that wasn’t his to get the plate to slide out of the way. The officer grabbed his hand before he could administer the concoction but the force of the heaves made Prowl let go so he could balance himself above his puddle of yuck.

The store rooms light cut out, plunging them once again into darkness as Sunstreaker pressed the injector in to the fuel access valve and pressed the switch to deliver the fluids. Prowl groaned and the yellow warrior offered a clean rag to the mech. Waiting for him to clean himself up before assisting him to his feet and turning away from the dark bays.

“Where… are you… taking me?”

Words came between harsh venting and Sunstreaker palmed open the doors and braced against the rush of music. 

“Somewhere to sleep it off.”

The officer weakly nodded and stumbled against the study form holding him, then guiding him out to the hall. Sunstreaker huffed, the meds shouldn’t have taken effect already, unless Prowl was seriously low on energon. 

Which was a distinct possibility.

With an agitated huff the yellow lambo let his commander slowly sink to the floor, optics growing dimmer by the moment and returned to the medbay to grab a few cubes of medical grade from the supply closet. Shoving them into his subspace, he pulled the nearly incapacitated Prowl back to his feet and continued on.

At least the mech wasn’t tensing up every few moments like he was about to purge.

The vibrations from the continuing party batted at them and Prowl stumbled again and again. The harsh venting evening out and the ice blue optics cycled to a near recharge state. Practically carrying the mech Sunstreaker stopped at the door to his shared quarters and vented harshly.

He hadn’t intended to bring Prowl here, but the commander wasn’t going to make it the three levels to his own quarters. Shifting the mech in his hold, the golden Autobot opened his door and dragged the near slumbering officer to the recharge room. Setting him on Sideswipes bunk, and then sitting across from him on his own.  
Hauling a mostly asleep officer around was surprisingly taxing. 

Flexing his arms and hearing the pop of joints working themselves loose, Sunstreaker pulled out the energon and drank one. Bland as medical grade always was, it still felt good to have something in his tank. 

Prowl mumbled something and the lambo helped the mech sit up then pressed the remaining cube to his lips, pulling it away when the pink fluid started to dribble down the black and white’s chin. Optics fading out, signaling the start of a recharge cycle, Sunstreaker grabbed the trash bin from the other room and positioned it on the floor near Prowls helm. Crawling into his own bunk, he felt the thrum of music being played several levels away. Sideswipe kept sending muzzy happy drunk pings across their bond and the lull of recharge claimed him.

 

The press of a body against him pulled him out of recharge just enough to feel the closeness of his brother and the gleefully dunk feeling that oozed through the bond. He sent a wave of displeasure in return but shifted to accommodate the red hellion that was his twin. It wasn’t uncommon for the idiot to get a serious case of drunk cuddles and as long as the information that he indulged his brother in them, stayed in this room, he was ok with it. Still the fragger could have ‘charged on the couch or floor, but as the warm form pressed against him he gave a soft vent as recharge swelled up the reclaim him once again.

The sharp report of fists hitting the door to his quarters roused the yellow warrior enough to hear the hollering out side.

“Wake up you devious red rat, Yer late fer your own unmaking!”

Sideswipes problem, NOT his, not even going to online optics for this.

His brother still vented rhythmically pressed to his side and sometime during the night his helm had set itself on the golden chest with an arm draped over.  
Sunstreaker grunted as he tried to shift away, the two of them sharing a bed made some mechs… uneasy. Not that he cared about status quo and that sort of slag, it was just he had to pound those that made incorrect assumptions about it.

The pounding drew closer as the mech stalked down the hall beating on the wall outside their quarters. Their quarters really being two adjacent rooms that they had cut a hole in the wall to connect. 

“Ah know it was you, Sideswipe!!”

Ironhide was now pounding on the second outer door, the one they kept closed as it led to the room they had designated as recharge quarters. He didn’t want to deal with this, his chrono told him it had only been 3.45 hours since he had started recharge and he had already been interrupted once by his twin.

He needed to ‘charge frag it and Ironhide was one of the mechs that didn’t like the whole snuggle brothers thing. 

“You got til I count to five, ta come out, or ah’m going in an draggin yer sorry hide out.”

Damn it, Sides still hadn’t moved. He was going to pitch the red aft across the room.

Wait. Prowl’s there.

Frag it.

OH Slag what if Ironhide saw Prowl?

Sunstreaker onlined his optics the same time the door slid open, the warm light from the hall washing over the twin as he took in the sight of Prowl curled against his chassis and Sideswipe rumble snoring at the tractions back, drooling on the light bar that served as his pillow. The red chevron had scratched a line into his chest and their legs were a tangle of yellow, red, black and white. There was no way this didn’t look like what he thought it looked like, and Primus damn it, he knew he didn’t frag Prowl last night.  
Throwing his helm back, he caught the strange expression on the old mechs face as the door slid shut. Thuds of retreating foot falls slowly died out and Sunstreaker let his helm fall back to the berth with a thud.

“I will kill you, Sideswipe.”

“Naw, you know you love me.”

He growled at the semi-lucid response. Sides had been awake, so he had wanted the old aft to come in and see. So he had probably set Prowl on him and thought this was a fine joke. Sunstreaker growled low and menacing, the tactician shifting and gouging even more of his armor with his chevron. 

He could go back to sleep or he could get up and deal with this.

Prowl whimpered as he shuddered against him and both lambos EM fields picked up on the quiver of fear in the black and whites. Sunstreaker heard Sides move, running a servo down their commanders side in a soothing gesture. Prowl whimpered again and clung tightly to him, a softly whispered ‘no’ coming from the sleeping officers vocalizer.  
With a huff the yellow twin sat up and started to untangle himself from Prowl. 

His reputation was comprised of him being a sociopath with a standing dislike of authority and minibots. And here he was in the berth with the embodiment of authority. It took a few moments to unwrap Prowl and a few more to shimmy over the mech, kneeing the red aft that would chock this up as a drunken good idea.

Sideswipe grunted as he was passed over, then shifting to get a better position on the suddenly not as crowded berth. He glared at the duo before stepping through the rough hewn doorway to the lounge part of their quarters. The motion activated lights picking up his movement and turning on. The full body mirror in the opposite wall caught his optic as an energon colored mar showed on his otherwise perfect yellow hip. Running his servo over the area he pulled his hand back when it encountered the sticky still warm energon. He wasn't injured, and Sides wasn't broadcasting pain over the bond. Turning, the frontliner peaked back in to the recharge room. Prowl was covered in cuts and scrapes from his time in the wash racks. But that didn't explain the damning puddle under his pelvic plates.

Looking closer at the tactician he noticed the servo shaped dents in his doorwings and the dents on the hips…and wrists.

He growled long and low. The thought of recharge fully cleared from his processors as the tactician shuttered again in his recharge, softly whispering ‘no’ yet again.


	2. Chapter 2

Protecting the Protector  
Beta'ed By the fantastic Wolvesfire77 (Thank you kindly)  
Thank you for all the wonderful reveiws and faves. 

This is now up to date with FF.net.

Chapter 2

Prowl shifted in his recharge, pulling his arm up to use it as a helm rest and whining softly as flickers of something unpleasant clouded his data stream. He lay slightly curled on his side, a weight pressed comfortingly against his back just low enough to not bother his door wings. The fear flickering in his EM field faded as soft strokes caressed over his transformations seams in a calming manner coaxing him back into the depths of recharge before the slither of wrong crept back in against the haze. 

He couldn't quite see what plagued him, the flurry of color always just out of reach and the tactician whimpered as a flash of pressure and the woefully claustrophobic sensation of being trapped reached out of the nebulous haze to grip him. His door wings quivered before the sensation fled as the soft, soothing pressure on his side and transformation seams returned.

The warmth pressing against his back disappeared abruptly and a loud crash prompted Prowl’s self preservation subroutines to terminate recharge. The emergency start up set his optics into a delayed boot as his sensory panels flared out ever so slightly to gather information on what was going on as evasive and counter maneuvers loaded and his weapons pinged a ready status. Within milli-klicks data poured in, his sensory feeds taking in massive amounts all at once and letting his cold booted processor sort out the relevant information. The room specs differed from his quarters and a field sweep identified two other occupants in close proximity. Energy signatures on record and no apparent weapons, with a small twitch of his left door-wing the tactician set his counter maneuver program to a lower standby position. 

“Prowl?”

He let his optics power on and focus in the dim room as he shifted to look at the mech his sensors had identified and tracked diligently for any swift movements. The light from the other room back lighting Sunstreaker in a glowing golden aura as he leaned on the rough cut door way that joined the two rooms. The Lamborghini glaring daggers at what his triangulation placed as the floor between the two stranded issued bunks. A high pitched whine and a metallic clang came from that area swiftly followed by a soft whimper. The black and white's door wings twitched again as they tracked the heat signature and motion of Sideswipe laying on the floor. The fuzz of the mechs EM field rising up to dance across his own in an overcharged apology. The next sharp clang as the intoxicated front liner attempted to lift his helm and met the berth’s skirting came as no surprise, nor was the slurred cursing that followed. 

As his systems lowered themselves from their emergency online readiness, system wide errors clamored across his status feeds. Fuel reserve levels approached critical lows and his on board repair notified him of several dented and torn areas on his mech form. With his internal chronometer incessantly notifying him that he had only been in recharge for 3.50 terrestrial hours and it was the general consensus of the rest of him that it was nowhere near long enough. The familiar tug of light medical sedation code clouded his processes and if it wasn’t for the overbearing warning of a corrupted memory file and the coinciding security warnings flashing insistently on his display he would have already fallen back into recharge like the med-virus wanted.

With an undignified groan the black and white shifted and winced as the action pulled on a dozen minor scrapes. The time stamps for the erroneous track showed the ten earth hours prior to his recharge cycle was damaged. Internal alerts flared as his self diagnostic initiated and poured over his systems to inventory all mission sensitive and classified data as the internal defragmenter brought his battle computer and tactical centers online to assist in sorting out the jumbled mess that was all that remained of last night to find the cause of the memory loss. 

Bracing himself, the replay initiated to a blast of colors and sensations. The pixilated replay lurched and jumped through its error wrought track with the surplus of data bogging his analytical processes down. Drowning out external awareness and narrowing his considerable focus down to just the replay. His hands silently scratching the berth under him as he folded into himself, laying curled on his side, door wings flicking violently against the ghost of flawed data.

The feeling of being restrained, of the taste of colors and a weight pressing into his door wings as he watched music float in the air with hands roaming across his chassis as the world tilted and spun and smells listened and error... error... PAIN...Prowl might have screamed, or the world screamed at him in his own voice. Then everything fell apart as the colors mashed together, twirling, spinning and folding into itself to emerge a diffrent violent shade. The wild undulations corrupting his gyroscopes input as his optical feed spiraled hopelessly out of control and he started to gag on what was left of his energon.

“Give me the bucket Sides!!”

A small startled cry made it out of him as the fluid burned his already sore intake tubes. Someone grabbed him, turned him over and pressed his face into a waste bin just as the fluid pumped out from between his lips.

Sunstreaker, he remembered Sunstreaker. His fans cycled on high to cool his battle computer as it attempted to glean any sort of useful data from the damaged memory and his tactical center tried to make sense of smelling colors. Both failing and not accepting that outcome, restarted the memory to try again. 

He whimpered and shook as he felt the music become more than just background noise as a blurry form scrapped against his own. The bass drops made the ship resonate and his sensory equipment picked up on it and soon everything was filled with ripples of neon colors as his codpiece was forced open.

“Prowl? Prowl?”

Everything was too hot then to cold and his wing sensors hurt from the strain of so much data as it tried to absorb everything at once. The colors, the sounds, the turbofoxes skittereing on the ceiling and the little puffs of technicolor smoke that lit up monumentally dazzling his optics as a dark form moved in the background.  
Then came the pain, a sudden stabbing from his lower middle that chased the foxes away with its cries. He lashed out, striking blindly at what was hurting him and felt his wrists be pinned under the massive weight of the Ark. Forever holding him like the bones of the dinosaurs Wheeljack had found. He screamed when the pain from the repeated stabbing became too much and again when he was certain he would never be dug up from his prison under the mountain that held his hands prisoner.

A single sharp crack across his face reinitiated the self preservation subroutines, canceling the playback to free up his tactical center and letting his focus venture outward to evaluate the threat. Optics flickering at the sudden reroute, the blinding yellow form of Sunstreaker standing in front of him holding his shoulders as his deep blue optics searched his face was the first thing that registered.

“Prowl, respond.”

“To the brig, for insubordination and attacking a superior officer.”

A snigger came from the red Lamborghini sitting on the floor holding his helm with both hands watching him intently.

“You were looping.” 

Sunstreaker growled every syllable and he couldn't hide his shudder as the vibrations washed over his glitching sensor net. Crossing his arms over his chest the yellow warrior leaned back against the bunk. His intense glare never wavered and Prowl flicked his wings at the looming Lamborghini as he manually terminated his battle computers processes. 

With a harsh vent of his own he forced himself to look Sunstreaker in the optics.

“Thank you.”

Sideswipe shifted so his foot tapped Prowl’s and lifted his head from the safety of his hands.

“He bitch slapped you …. and you thank him.”

The red lambo jerked awkwardly as his overly bright optics danced with amusement, a coarse laugh working its way out of the front liner as he threw his head back against the opposite bunk.

“Primus, I’m drunk.”

With a huff Sunstreaker slapped his brother across the back of the helm causing him to emit a high pitched whine as he took his helm into his hands once again.  
His wings twitched with every motion, energy flare, and even anticipating the assorted noises of the twins they still caused him to flinch and jerk. His optics fell as his hands he found the edge of the bunk and squeezed. He didn't know what was happening then, but now he knew what had happened. Twice he had been dragged back through the mess of colors and sensations and the first conclusion his battle computer had reached was that he had been violated. The ache in his pelvic structure and the sticky mess he was pointedly ignoring painted a very clear picture of what the pain had been, but there was no why.

Or who.

There were just sharp colors and pixels in places there shouldn't be. No face, no form, not even a voice to haunt him. He checked and double checked his data tracks and information banks, no errors or illicit entry came up. His data transfer ports had never been activated and the log stated that his classified files hadn’t been accessed since his last meeting with Optimus yesterday. 

Whoever did this hadn’t hacked him. 

“Prowl stop, you'll make yourself loop again.”

Sideswipe reached out and touched the glass on Prowl's ankle. The Datsun pulled his foot away. 

“No, I have it under control.”

Sunstreaker snorted and a sneer worked its way across the handsome face before Prowl looked away and the Front liner huffed. Silently the tactician kicked himself; he never backed down from them. He faced Sunstreaker's poorly contained violence and Sideswipe's brilliantly illogical pranks without wavering. He couldn't give in and show weakness, not to them, not to anyone really. He was the tactician, the one who made the hard choices, he who selected what battalions to send where and what for.  
Prowl drew a harsh intake of air and covered his face with his hand.

He needed to maintain the respect of those he sent out. If they doubted him, if they thought for a micro-kilk that he didn't have the best interests of all Autobots in the fore front of his helm when he sent them out against the odds then his worth as a tactician was less then scrap. 

But he couldn't shake the feeling of being held down, of the violent swirl of colors and feelings that threatened to swamp out his processor or of the ache in his interface array and the tight knot of apprehension from not know who or why or anything really.

The shudder worked its way through him as he pointedly didn't look at either of the Lamborghini's. He picked a spot between the two and focused intently on that as he sorted himself out. Prowl could make out the glint of red from Sideswipe's elbow and the polished glow of Sunstreaker's knee. His venting came in harsh gusts and he flinched away when something brushed his hand still clenched to the side of the berth.

“Here.”

Sideswipe set the half full cube of mid grade next to his hand and let his EM field mingle with Prowl’s for just a moment as he projected a feeling of worried/comfort/drunk. At the sight of the fuel his tank churned and his low energy warning flashed.

Dropping the hand that had been hiding his face the Datsun picked up the cube and took a small sip. The fresh fluid stinging his intake lines making him cough. 

“You should see Ratchet.”

Sunstreaker still stood there, glaring, and all Prowl could do was nod, still refusing to look the twins in the optics. The black and white drank half the cube and set it aside, his tank still lurched any time his thought process drifted to last night. 

What had happened? The last non-corrupted memory was of Jazz giving him a cube of energon like the mech always did when he worked late and trying to get him to put in an appearance to the party that wasn't to shut it down. Again, it was the same as all the other times he'd declined the invite in favor of reviewing battle strategies. Did he go? Things started to get fuzzy before he could decline Jazz.

Did he go?

It wouldn't have been the first time the Head of Special ops had talked him into doing something he normally wouldn't. But he didn't feel overcharged, there was no fuzz in his system like Sideswipe was projecting.

Did he interface the twins? He was in their quarters on Sunstreaker’s berth and they weren’t known for their gentleness.  
He didn't think so. There was a flash or two of Sunstreaker in the wash racks floating in the mess of last night. It didn't feel right, but right now nothing felt right.  
But he had interfaced and it had been rough and... he pulled what data he could from the two ventures into the corrupted memory file. He had never left the ship so it had to have been an Autobot, someone he would let near the classified data in his banks.

Someone he trusted.

He silenced his vocalizer before the whine could escape. He felt... betrayed and hurt beyond the physical damage on his form and a trickle of errors crossed his display as his battle computer failed to equate the emotions into algorithms it could compute.

Blindly he reached out for some sort of normalcy, accessing the command communication frequency like he did every morning and checking his reports.  
His three requests for medics still sat open in the command queue but a dozen comm. messages littered his inbox. Ratchet, Red Alert, and Ironhide made up the bulk but with a singular high priority message from Optimus. 

Opening that one first, he mentally cringed. 

//:Report status: Immediately.://

Whatever had happened last night he would handle it and handling it did not equate to hiding out, ignoring his duties.

//: Status: Operational.://

Prowl stood up against the flair of pain and turned away from the duo, taking in the mess at the back of the recharge room topped off with an inflatable human female and several other minor contraband items. The room was standard, just having two of everything. Bunks, storage lockers, the desks had been broken and thrown out, yet another infraction, the walls painted with a landscape of a sunset over mauve mountains with a skyline that transitioned onto the ceiling.  
It was pleasant and very much the twins space.

Flicking his door wings in dismissal Prowl stepped toward the door way.

“Wait, here.”

Sunstreaker stepped in front of him, blocking his way out and offered a small tin of healing nanaites and a rag.

“You’re leaking.”

Taking the proffered cloth he nodded.

“Thank you.”

He could feel a bead of energon escape his interface panel and travel down his thigh. The moment of close proximity had let him feel the raging maelstrom of anger and rage in the mech’s EM field. The sheer force of the anger made him pause and glance at the face plates contorted into a sneer.

Sunstreaker stalked out of the room with a distinct predatory grace that triggered an assortment of warnings as Sideswipe clutched his helm and whined before finding his feet and wobbling after his brother. Moments later he heard the couch in the other room protest as the red one flopped down onto it. His sensors still tracked the pair as Sunstreaker took up pacing across the other room, stopping just short of being able to see into the recharge room. Giving him a measure of privacy but still blocking his way out. His spark throbbed at the notion of being trapped, the feeling of being stuck forever in the bowels of the mountain still fresh in his process.

His wings were quivering, trembling as the tide of unease worked its way through him. The tactician cycled his optics and swept his wings in a wide arch. He was not trapped; there was a door to the outside in his line of view right there. He pulled up the schematics of the Ark, swiftly calculating the 10 best routes out of the ship depending on where he wanted to end up amongst thousands of other variables.

The hum of his battle computer brought him a measure of comfort and familiarity, feelings that countered those of being trapped.  
Countered, but not eliminated.

With a shaky ex-vent Prowl looked down at the canister and rag in his hands then to the berth. The energon had congealed to a sticky mess with a few droplets of fresh fluid residing where he had sat after he had purged. There was no hiding it, and the two terrors knew.  
His grip of the canister tightened and the week metal groaned in protest. 

Did they know who did it, or why?

Would they tell everyone? 

A resounding series of thuds echoed in the small space and the vibrations made his sensor net throb in unhappy pulses. The twins responding with a pained groan from Sideswipe and a virulent curse from Sunstreaker to tell whoever it was to go away.

The door to the other room opened and Ironhide stormed in, Prowl’s door wings following the action as Brawn came in right behind the older mech and Trailbreaker brought up the rear. All had weapons drawn and locked onto the Lamborghini's.

A quick double check of the duty roster and full sensor sweep showed the emergency response team members in a takedown formation. Sunstreaker's deep growl permeated through the quarters and Ironhide's command to get onto his knees made him step towards the open doorway.

This wasn't right. Ironhide shouldn't be doing this, whatever they had done, the twins shouldn't be dragged out of their quarters at cannon point.

The door to the sleeping quarters pinged green, stopping him as they swished open to reveal the Chief Medical Officer who cast a baleful optic to the energon on the berth and the tin still under pressure in his hand.

“Come on Prowl.”

The tone was neutral and calm. A stark contrast to the other room as it exploded in action as Sunstreaker attempted to take out Ironhide. He flinched at the crack of metal and the discharge of a weapon as he struggled to keep up with the play by play as the yellow Lamborghini fought against the three mechs.

“What's going on Ratchet?”

Ratchet was at his side, pulling the rag from his grip and running it quickly down his thigh before tossing it over the pool of energon.

“We're getting you out of here, Optimus ordered the halls cleared so no one will see this.”

He shuddered, the 'this' Ratchet spoke of was more saying 'you'. But this was over the top to save a colleague the walk of shame back to his quarters the morning after. There was also the inference about the twins; no one would see Ironhide take down two Autobots that hadn’t had proper due process of the Autobot code.

The Ark shuddered as the three mechs overwhelmed Sunstreaker, forcing him to the ground. 

Ratchet touched his wrist and Prowl flinched, pulling away from the medic.

This was wrong, all wrong.

“What did they do?”

The medic’s face contorted into a grimace as his tone stayed the eerie calm of before as he backed away, clearing a path to the door flanked by the two berths. 

“They raped you and set up several others to have it happen to them, we have enough evidence already and Optimus is setting up for a tribunal.”

Emotions flickered and flashed through him until his battle computer engaged to perform a thorough analysis of what Ratchet had said. He didn't remember enough to say who had done it, but he was in their berth room, he had been violated. Not just him, but others.

Sideswipe had shown he could orchestrate some very convoluted pranks that took months to set up and Sunstreaker... He remembered Sunstreaker. The yellow twin the only thing that came in clear from the entire corrupted file and he was never gentle. 

It made logical sense. They hated him and what better way to get back at him for all the punishment details he'd had them assigned to then to shame and humiliate him.  
Shouting came from the other room, Sideswipes voice ringing as it cursed the mechs, their carriers and the city’s that they hailed from that made his door wings tremble. 

“Leave them to handle the twins Prowl, please come with me.”

With the way unblocked and the rising timbre of the twins vehement cursing, Prowl stepped forward into the light of the hall and stood next to his fellow officer.  
It still felt wrong, that he was missing something important, but Prowl clung to the logical conclusion like a lifeline as Ratchet led him away from the twins quarters and the chaos inside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is currently unedited. It will be updated and posted to FF.net once it is edited. Also for some reason Ao3 keeps eating my spacing so i apologize for the large block o text. >-

Protecting the protector  
Chapter 3

 

The halls of the Ark were eerily silent, no mechs darted from room to room or lounged on their way to get rations. The morning had transformed into a bright day and still the quiet lingered, the lights stayed dim. The somber mood permeating deep in to the fouled spacecraft and even the Dinobots kept the ruckus to a minimum. The fact a good three quarters of the ships populace were currently nursing hangovers of legendary proportions helped explain the muted ambiance and Ironhide huffed.  
The Autobots were compromised, there was no way they could fight the Decepticons in their current ready status, should the need arise. The red Autobots shoulders were thrown back and his back was rod straight as he marched through the Ark. Bumblebee winced at his heavy footfalls and merely nodded his greeting before slinking away. Glittering bits covered the mechs feet and trailed in his wake, telling the old Red one that the rec room was still flooded with the little things.  
Clingy, nasty bits of prismatic colored plastic.  
As he neared the area in question, the trails merged together to coat the floor in a bejeweled, gaudy display of prankness, or as he reminded himself with a deepening of his scowl, a diversion. He paused before going in, the shear amount of glitter coating every surface made him dial down his optics lest he be dazzled. The plastic bits crunched under foot and had this been a battlefield the moan coming from the vicinity of the speakers would have been taken as a dying mechs last utterance. Pausing in his march, Ironhide scanned the area around the music equipment, finding the life signs of a very hung over Blaster. A very sparkly Blaster who was under his DJ table as the light refracting off the gazillion bits were nearly blinding to a non-over energized bot and Primus help you if you had any lingering over charge. As the moans attested to the tape deck having plenty of. The soft, comforting lighting having been changed out to a harsh higher wattage to ensure the torment of other bots to go along with the whole glitter shenanigan's.  
Growling at the communications mechs continued moans since he had already found out the higher wattage had been added in by the on duty maintenance crew, who had to repair the after mess and were giving those that over indulged some minor form of payback. Ironhide turned on heal and found his way to the very recently replaced energon dispenser. It along with the mech currently using it the only non glitter adorned items in the room.  
Filling a cube with low grade the weapons master slapped a seal on it and subspaced it before filling another and taking a cautionary sip. Wheeljack was nursing a wounded ego, severely damaged credit account and the inventor had been the one to find First Aid. Ironhide growled into his cube, making ripples course across the top of the pink fluid. He could understand if Wheeljack was a little off his game and had installed the new dispenser incorrectly, it wouldn't have been the first time 'Jack being flustered had resulted in... interesting outcomes.  
But no, the energon was fine and Ironhide gulped down the rest of his ration before turning and leaving the sparkling rec room. The glitter trailed after him as he refused to look down to acknowledge the bits that clung to his feet.  
He marched himself along the corridor noting the many wobbling trails that led to the wash-racks and let himself follow them. The door swished open and he grumbled as he took the nearest faucet and proceeded to rinse off the clingy bits. A small sound had him crane his helm around to search for the origin of the noise. The defeated whimper echoing slightly in the confined area as a flash of blue caught his optics.  
“Tracks? You ok mech?”  
The blue sports car flinched and turned away, helm hanging limply as he braced with one hand on the wall and the other wrapped around his chest, hugging himself. Ironhide walked up to the mech and let out a tentative field sweep, his wave of forced calm encountering the maelstrom of emotions that was Tracks EM field. Hurt, confusion and disgust the predominate emotions scorching though the minor contact and Ironhide pulled his field back and clipper-ed it tight to his frame so he wouldn't emit how he felt at that moment.  
“Tracks, it'll be alright. Lets get you to the medbay.”  
The blue mech turned under the solvent spray and his engine hiccuped in his distress.  
“I.. I Ironhide, Please I didn't... and and I don't know and.”  
The old red mech raised his hand to cut off the stuttering flow of nonsense.  
“It'll be alright, Someone spiked the energon last night and I'm sad to say you weren’t the only one who found themselves with either no memory and a sore interface array or were still hooked up to a mech they other wise wouldn't let near them.”  
Tracks hiccuped again.  
“T-the first one. And I know I’m easy.. but I still and and no I don't know who and and and.”  
Ironhide reached out, pausing before he set his hand on the other mechs shoulder in a benignly friendly gesture.  
“It's ok, and it's not your fault. No mater what, you still have a say and if you can't say it, then the answer is always no.”  
Tracks looked at him in the optics, solvent rushing down the mechs miserable face.  
“I woke up in the supply closet.”  
The Corvette hiccuped as his engine revved in his disgust.  
Tracks moved his arm from his middle and Ironhide could see the words scribbled there.  
'Dirty whore.'  
The older mechs engine flared to life, growling his opinion and Tracks flinched away, removing the hand from his shoulder to grab the harshest solvent on the shelf and applied a liberal amount to his mid plating. Scrubbing until the blue paint thinned and flecks of primer gray shown through. Venting harshly, Ironhide reached out to set his hand over Track's shaking blue one.  
“It's paint, you're going to need more then this solvent to get rid of it, come on, lets get ya to the med bay. Wheeljack will get it off in no time, then I think you should talk to Hoist.”  
The Red truck turned the spray to rinse off the sports car then toggled it off. A waft of high grade and ozone reached his olfactory node as Track spun himself in to Ironhide's chassis. Pressing their chests together and running his hands down side seams to tweak the wires at his hip as the red face plates nuzzled against Ironhides neck cabling.  
“You could... I would... have something I could remember...”  
Ironhide grabbed the hands massaging his hips firmly and took a step back away from the mech, schooling his faceplate to an indifferent mask.  
“No, Tracks. We both know that a quick fling won't fix this. Come on, lets get you to Wheeljack then I'm going ta make sure you get an appointment with Hoist.”  
He kept the contact firm but friendly on Track's hands. Trying to say he was there for him, just not like that.  
The Corvette nodded and Ironhide let go of his hands which swiftly wrapped around the degrading words as the mech gave his feet a through inspection. Ironhide sighed and wrapped his arm around the slightly smaller mechs shoulders, avoiding the jet pack and wings as best he could and gave a little shake.  
“It'll be alright, lets get you taken care of.”  
He ran his servo down the blue back, pressing the mech forward when it reached the midpoint. Keeping his hand there as they made their way out of the wash racks and into the corridor where Tracks pulled away.  
“Why Hoist? I thought Smokescreen was the shrink?”  
The old red mech grumbled as he avoided a trail of glitter.  
“Hoist isn't a shrink, he's a therapist. Something Ratchet most certainly isn't and Smokescreen is a tactical psychiatrist used to evaluate Decepticons motives to better do what ever it is Prowl has him do. Oh, and don't ever play cards with him.”  
Tracks gave a feeble laugh as they turned to the Science wing, his arms still wrapped around his middle hiding the paint from view of any passerby’s. Not that there were any.  
Assessing the command com frequency Ironhide pinged Wheeljack.  
\\\Got another one, Tracks, inbound to med bay.\\\  
The answer was the formal messaged revived and the instructions to avoid the main bay, instead going to the med lab adjacent to Ratchets domain.  
Tracks gave him a sidelong glance when they reached the med bay and the automatic doors failed to open.  
“This way Tracks, like I said your not the only one and with something like this, patient confidentiality is paramount.”  
The Corvette nodded as Ironhide guided him to a relatively unremarkable door that Ironhide had to enter the pass code three times to get to open. The room was well lit and lined with assorted science-y stuff that looked both frail and important and had names that would take Perceptor a good astro-minute to get through. A tube full of what looked like congealed energon rested in a plas-glass cabinet and was repeatedly scanned by the machine next to it as lines of code scrolled across a nearby monitor.  
The rear door opened and Wheeljack entered, optics dimmer then his usual cheerfully bright blue.  
His fins flashing muted colors as he spoke, belaying his wearied state that had Ironhide huffing.  
“Ah Tracks, Ironhide said that you befell the contaminated energon.”  
The blue car shifted from foot to foot, optics dropping to the floor as he unwound his arms from his middle. Forcing his hands to his side as they kept making nervous fists that were soon being rubbed on leg plating. Wheeljack kept his demeanor calm as he scanned the fidgeting mech with a practiced ease.  
“Ok Tracks, I can get that off you in no time and we'll do the report right afterward, alright?”  
Wheeljack opened the rear door again and held it open for Tracks to pass through, letting it shut behind the mech before pinning Ironhide with a wearied look.  
“He's the fifth one Ironhide, not including Prowl...”  
“I know.”  
His arms crossed over his chest as he barked his retort. Then raised one hand to his face.  
“Sorry Wheeljack, we've all had a long night and a horrible morning. I take that energon is a sample from the dispenser?”  
The Lancia nodded and rubbed his mask in a tell that made the inventor a prime mark for poker games. Still, Wheeljack was as stalwart as any of the frontliners, having pulled a shift before the poker game started, not attempting to drown himself in high grade during, then stepping up when the rest of the science team crawled away to sleep it off. He was there with him and Ratchet, helping to clean up when Telatraan had notified Ratchet of the unanswered medic requests. Ever thing after that was a blur as the Protectorbots were found and the others started showing up. The full horror story coming together when he found Prowl in the twins quarters and the mech in front of him had to handle it without having recharged in the last 40 odd hours.  
“Have you had a fresh cube this mornin' Jack?”  
“Not yet, been swamped.”  
The mech made a vague sweeping motion with his arms.  
“I'll bring you some later then, take good care of them Jack.”  
A bit of the mech normal brightness returned as Ironhide clapped him on his shoulder before turning to leave.  
“When will the tribunal start?”  
Ironhide paused in the doorway and looked back at the inventor whose brightness had dimmed again.  
“As soon as the dispenser sample is analyzed.”  
The red mech stepped away, the door immediately swooshing shut behind him to cut off any more questions.  
The quiet of the corridor weighed heavily on his shoulders and Ironhide felt a wave of tiredness wash over him. One hand braced against the wall as the other rose to cover his optics. He hadn’t had any recharge either, neither had Ratchet and the doc had to get the terrors put back together well enough to stand the tribunal and deal with those that had been violated.  
A knot formed in his tank, the whole mess with Prowl and the twins and everyone else that ended up as collateral damage. He didn't want to believe it, but he'd seen it with his own optics. The twins tangled up with Prowl and that guilty as the pit look Sunstreaker had given him and Ratchet's preliminary report on the mechs condition.  
With a sharp growl he punched the wall. The clang echoing as he pulled away, setting his shoulders and face plates before he marched himself through the Ark to the Command deck. He was the impromptu officer of the day, Prowl having been dropped for obvious reasons. Stopping just outside to collect himself. He had to remain steady and not lash out. Ironhide wasn't one to deny that he was upset, but frag it all. Who wouldn't be? Prowl was his friend and so were the mechs on the still elongating list of those hurt. The red mech forced ventilation’s, puffing rhythmically to help ground and center himself before he motioned for the door to open.  
The screens lit the large control room and Silverbolt nodded from his position in front of Teleetran as the assorted patrols were tracked on the main screen. The scattered blips showing last report time and the Aerialbot comm'ed a delinquent team for an update. The tall jet's face belaying his aggravation as it took several tried to raise Warpath and Cliffjumper who had gone off the designated route.  
“Its the third time Ironhide. I'd be worried something was wrong if I didn't already know they're just hung over and taking short cuts.”  
Before he could respond the slurred voice of Cliffjumper came over the duty frequency reporting all clear.  
“Put them in for a double, I’ll approve it right now.”  
Silverbolt vented as he updated Teleetraan. The keys clicking as his fingers danced over them.  
“They already have a double, Tracks was to take over for Cliffjumper at noon and he was just pulled from the roster and Pipes, who was Warpath's relief, was dropped right after I took over this morning. Whats going on?”  
The old mech shook his helm. Prime didn't want the rumor mill that was the Ark to get it's claws into some half truths and make the situation even worse for some very confused and hurt bots. Even after the Tribunal, when the base data was open for all to see, with just the victims names classified in order to protect them, this sort of thing had a tendency to get out of hand.  
“Something nasty, but still classified. Just count yourself lucky.”  
He patted the mech on the shoulder and tried his best to not let the young jets questioning optics goad him into spilling his guts. The Ark would hear all about this heinous crime soon enough.  
“Who is on monitor duty?”  
Silverbolt shifted as he pulled up the amended duty roster.  
“It was suppose to of been Grooves but he was pulled as well, Red Alert is covering until Beachcomber returns from his Seattle harbor patrol.”  
Ironhide nodded and took up position at the officers station. Pulling up various patrol reports and closing them without really looking at them. The tight knot of anger sat firmly between his shoulders and pressed against his spark, coming out with every punch of the keys.  
How could they?  
Sure it was Prowl.  
Everyone hated him at one point or another. It was part of his job. Prowl didn't exactly discourage it since him being the bad mech let Prime be the hero, but he did seek to remain apart from the rest of the troops.  
For his own emotional well being.  
The old red mechs hands balled into fists as the image of Prowl on the rooftop of Iacon high command flitted to the top of his processor. The wings slung low as the lights from the city flashed behind the seated mech. It had been early in the war, back when they still thought of it as a conflict and not a full civil war that would jade even the heartiest of sparks with its senseless violence and death. He had been angry that a troop of raw mechs had been sent to defend Athilex. That this cold, smug, bastard of a mech had sent the first true brigade of volunteers, of Autobots, to fight for a doomed city. These weren’t converted protectors and military mechs, these were civilians with minimal training and barely enough armor to cover their afts.  
And still they were sent, and they had died.  
The reports were still coming it, of the casualties, of the success.  
That, if anything made it worse. The half trained slaggers had done it. They had uprooted the corrupt council and were beginning martial law.  
Yet the civilian deaths from Athilex and of the Autobots ran across the bottom of every channel and live footage still showed riots and open fighting in the streets as the masterminds behind it slunk back into whatever waist drain they had crawled out of, leaving just the churning, unhappy masses to face the mechs Prowl had sent in.  
That he would send them again the next time the riots consumed a city. Their success meant more would be recruited, more would be sent out to fight and to die.  
Ironhide wanted to throw the mech off the roof. He really did. Ratchet would put him back together so he could do it again and again until the fragger got the point. Until he saw that those he sent were more then just service numbers. That they had names and hopes and damn good jokes and that you didn't just sent them off to die.  
The rooftop door opened with a creak of unused joints and the red mech stepped out onto the sloping roof of the Primes command wing. The wide courtyard spread out below still had the ruts from the drills he'd had the Autobots running at the start of the day cycle. Now in the dark they were just darker spots in an already dark place.  
If anything it made him even angrier.  
Before he could stop himself his fist hit Prowl. The crunch of an optic shattering echoed in the yard below followed closely by the guttural whump as his foot impacted the black and whites middle. He wanted to yell and scream out his rage at the mech still seated in front on him, who didn't even lift his hand to his bleeding face. The soft tink of the glass shards falling down the slope assailed him as he stood steaming next to the silent mech. Ever so slowly Prowl turned to him, left optic casting un-buffered white light that bleached out the blue from his other one.  
“I sent them, Ironhide, I can't undo whats been done. I can't let personal feelings about the mechs stop me from sending them from getting hurt.”  
His fist collided with Prowl face plates again, sending the mech clattering to the roof.  
“You can afford to be angry, Ironhide, I can't. I can't do this every time, I just can't.”  
Prowl sat back up and the lights caught on his face plates. The pure misery that show there drowned out any notion of physical pain from the busted optics and energon leak from his olfactory node. The black and white buried his helm into his hands and a miserable zing danced across the wildly fluctuating EM field. Each minuet electromagnetic shift grating across his own, the blatant emotional pain making his anger give way.  
Ironhide huffed and groaned as he turned to sit next to the mech. The stars flashing over head in Cybertrons piratically non-existent atmosphere as the sounds of the bustle in Iacons trade district carried into the darkened complex.  
“I promised two of them that joining the Autobots would be a new start, a way for them to find peace... and I sent them to die for the same mechs that had shunned them in the first place.”  
Ironhide growled and scratched the cables at the back of his neck.  
“You don't know their dead.”  
Prowl didn't lift his head, he just vented wearily.  
“I received the first official casualty report, their squad took the main square. They went up against the hired mercenary's of the council members. They broke the lines, let the other squads in. No survivors.”  
The red mech let his optics cycle, willing the anger that rose up, to settle in a different place.  
“So why did ya send them? Couldn't you have redid your plan to move them to safety?”  
The other mechs voice broke in to a whine as hands clutched at his helm.  
“They followed my plan perfectly... they were the only ones that had experience fighting, the only ones that could statistically do what needed doing. If I had sent a different squad, they would have lost and the casualties would be worse.”  
Prowl looked up from his heap of misery, dabbing at the flow of energon from his face.  
“I can't get to close, I can't. It hurts to much to have to send them into fights I know they have only minor chances of returning from. But I have to send them or risk losing even more.”  
Ironhide harrumphed as he took to his feet then reached down to pick the slighter mech up.  
“Do what you have to do Prowl. As long as you don't forget that you're sending mechs, real mechs with lives out there. Now get on to the med bay and if Ratchet asks, say I threw you off the roof. And I’ll always be here ready to throw you off it if you forget.”  
With a harrumph Ironhide looked away from the monitor that he really wasn't looking at. He had pulled Prowl off that rooftop more times than he cared to remember. A few times the mech looked almost as if he was ready to throw himself off it.  
As much as the tactician played up the hard aft routine, he really did care. He gave a damn and did his best to ensure the casualty count was as minimal as possible. Prowl never really let anyone in after that either. He didn't want to be friends with someone only to have to send them off to their demise and with the Autobots and his position in them meant practically everyone.  
Prowl wasn't the only one who stopped letting other mechs get to personal in order to prevent the pain of their passing. With a war this damning and long it was almost mandatory to keep your self from going crazy. To know just enough about a bot, with out really knowing him so when he took a blast to the chest you could march on. But you didn't forget, you never forgot. Their face, their smile, the off color jokes or how this one got overcharged and lit himself on fire.  
The list of names rattled off in Ironhide's cortex. Some he knew, some he knew well, but they were all remembered.  
“You alright Ironhide?”  
The weapons specialist looked up at the concerned face of Silverbolt and swallowed his grief.  
“Yeah, kid, just remembering.”  
“It didn't look like it was a pleasant memory.”  
“Oh it was kid, it was great. That's what makes it so horrible.”  
The large fliers face plates scrunched in confusion. To new to truly understand the horror of the war.  
“Don't worry about it, Silverbolt. You'll figure it out soon enough.”  
The jet looked like he was going to reply when Ironhide held up his hand to silence him. The command frequency pinged twice before Optimus Primes marker hailed all officers.  
\\\ Tribunal starts in :30 min, local time denomination. Are all associated officers ready?\\\


End file.
